The Code of the Cure
by Forever-MoreLikeNever
Summary: 20 year old Clarice had a head full of dreams when the keys to Langfield Estate were finally left in her rightful possession. Once renovations were completed, the 17th Century mansion would become Ireland's iconic stately home with attraction to the masses and a substantial income for its owner. However on the eve of the biggest investor meeting yet, fate dictates otherwise.


**_The Code of the Cure_**

The tinkle of glass on marble produced a note too positive for the events it had brought to a close. Silence, though close to being considered impossible again, fell upon Langfield Estate. The once grand dwelling, with its tall ceilings, intricate mouldings, delicate decoration and its exquisite atmosphere of wealth, fortune and all the luck in the world, belonged to the past. Dust clings to everything as it is now; white sheets cover what remainder of furniture had survived over the years. Wallpaper faded, paint stripped, Langfield was for a large number of years nothing but a lifeless shell, until now that is. For as soon as Clarice Harringford arrived on the morning of February 23rd with a possible investor right on her heels and head full of business dreams in her head, Langfield House became the canvas for a striving entrepreneur. Unfortunately, on the 28th February, on a day filled with enough misery caused by the on pouring rain and gale force winds, Langfield Estate – the house of dreams; became the scene of a murder investigation.

The body, nearly two weeks after it had been discovered, was identified as 15 year old Lauren Reid. The exact cause of her death had yet to be established, yet Police had indicated the possible involvement of a cult or gang. Investigations, according to the greying news reporter, were to continue for at least another three weeks.

Great. Clarice, sitting with a bowl of cereal balanced on her knees, quickly flicked the TV channel to the less intimidating Jeremy Kyle Show. Thoughts bypassed for a moment the brunette almost cracked a sarcasm laced smile at the common believe that no matter how bad your life seemed to be think otherwise so long as your face failed to appear on that very show. As if there was a true measurement, personal circumstances cried otherwise. Things couldn't get worse that this, they just couldn't.

The nightmares that had accompanied the discovery of the dead girl on the landing of her future business had been just the tip of an iceberg filled with cold hard problems that never gave care to melt. Above all else her new business plan had the colloquial label of Murder House and some, for she could tell by the fleeting stares and grimaced, haughty lip curls, felt that she was involved. Things could not get worse. No, wait, she'd also all signs of investment interest as a bonus. Langfield Estate was a dead end avenue with the current view remaining anything but pretty.

Frustration overwhelmed Clarice in that moment as every little detailed predication and thought of negative raced through her mind again and again. Frustration at the situation, frustration at the fact she didn't know what to do, frustration at pretty much the entire world. Pushing off the sofa she walked to the kitchen, dumping the bowl in the sink and grabbing her bag from the counter top. A distraction, of any kind, was what was needed, insanity being the other option.

It was March, yet frost still clung to the air and by the clear look of the stars in the sky above it was clear that tonight would be an especially cold one. It was Ireland after all, wherein the seasons followed as cold, colder, even colder and fucking freezing. Wrapping her scarf around her neck tighter, Clarice let out an exaggerated sigh, the warmth of her breath twisting and twirling upwards and onwards before her. Though it twisted, turned, and swirled as it pleased, it was tragic to think that even her own exasperated breath had more direction that she did. Fuck this place, fuck Langfield Estate, fuck the whole fucking idea, she should have never listened to anything but her own common sense.

The town in which Clarice lived was beyond small and therefore consider to be home to a very tight knit community, though it severed as a mere commuter pit stop between two greater cities and the border to Southern Ireland. Regardless however this was supposed to be the one place on the entire planet that she could feel safe, loved, wanted, though it reality what came to mind was isolation, anger and unwanted pity. Fuck you all. Any notion of clearly her head had already been a fail, the idea of distraction long gone, her anger had brought her before the root of her problems. Langfield loomed in the approaching distance.

Located in the town's outskirts, nestled in the hollow of the valley, the house, with its 200 surrounding acres, was shadowed on one side by Lake Catherine and on the other by the intimidating mass that was Langfield Forest. Having grown up with the house and its land in the family Clarice had one too many memories of getting lost in that very forest. The trees were close and branches wide; travel more than a mile inward and you easily lost all sense of time or surrounding. It was only after three hours of searching had she and her slightly older brother been found after a game of hunters and the hunted had gone wrong.

Tearing down the police tape from the front door, the average height bunnette stepped into the place her ancestors had once called home for generations before. It was quiet except for the almost too prominent noise of the cloth covered grandfather clock to the right of the main entrance. Stepping into this very room one was instantly attracted to the large twisting stair case to the left which curved to the right to the above landing that overlooked the main entrance – the landing on which the girl had been found. Naturally there was nothing there now, it would appear that forensics had done their job, the body had been moved and the place had returned to its original empty shell state. If only, just looking in the direction of the crime scene gave Clarice unwanted chills.

Waking into the drawing room she dumped her bag on the antique desk that dominated the space, even when under the cover of white material. Despite the general dilapidated state however, the west wall of the room had been adorned with several mood and design boards showcasing the young business aspirations in all their glory. They had never once met the eyes of the investors, they no longer served a purpose, regardless of the time and effort they had consumed. The thought generated anger and the anger resulted in physical rage as she tore them from the wall and subsequently threw them across the room.

The clattering noise the objects created against the solid wood floors was short, dull and hollow but it hadn't been the cause behind Clarice's decision to snap back into reality. No, it was the additional noises that occurred in reaction from the floor above. The sound of a door closing? A draft breezing through? The creaking of floorboards. The shuffling of footsteps. Langfield Estate was no longer home to one soul inhabitant and the uninvited company had taken no measure to remain silent. Naturally it was therefore to be assumed that on this occasion, Clarice was the real intruder. Fuck.


End file.
